


i love you. i want us both to eat well.

by mcscouty



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Found Family, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Insomnia, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Time Skip, Rating May Change, Repression, Spoilers, Trans Male Character, Trans My Unit | Reflet | Robin, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, implied disordered eating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25293259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcscouty/pseuds/mcscouty
Summary: frederick knows that caring for someone means that sometimes you have to make sure they take care of themselves, but he's slow to realize that when it comes to robin.(with these two, it always seems to come back to food in some way.)"I don’t particularly care for meat if given the choice,” he says, more to the fire than to the peculiar shadow of Robin’s face. “I am not opposed to well-prepared meat, but. I much prefer fruits and vegetables that are not native to Ylisse. They are luxuries I did not have much as a child.”The quiet feels warm. A smile curls along Robin’s lips.“I should’ve figured you’d be high maintenance.”“And I should have known someone with such an unrefined palate would only mock me.”
Relationships: Frederick/My Unit | Reflet | Robin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	i love you. i want us both to eat well.

**Author's Note:**

> title from [christopher citro's poem "our beautiful life when it's filled with shrieks"](https://www.rattle.com/our-beautiful-life-when-its-filled-with-shrieks-by-christopher-citro/) which has haunted me for weeks
> 
> i also did a lot of speculation abt frederick's background and being as i've only play the base game of awakening it.... might be wrong but. i'm willing to cop that.

Robin sits next to him—loose, easy—as the camp’s fire is starting to die down. Frederick looks at him from the corner of his eye and nods. Robin smiles, tired, but happy and seems to press closer. “Evening, Frederick—how’s the fire looking?”

“It is fine, considering the hour. What do you require, Robin?”

Robin pouts, leans his cheek into his palm and it reminds Frederick, briefly, of when Chrom and Lissa were young and did not appreciate being told that sometimes their whims were less important than their training. Frederick continues to look at the campfire, mindful more of its dwindling flame than the Robin’s proximity. It’s not cold enough to warrant reigniting the fire, but sometimes Frederick feels a chill in the middle of the night—Robin is a solid warmth reminding him he isn’t alone.

Frederick shifts, away from the warmth.

“I was wondering,” Robin starts slowly as if he isn’t sure Frederick is listening. He tilts his head, turns his ear towards Robin. “What do you like to eat, Fredericson?”

“Do not call me that—” reflex, even the short tone; Robin snorts. Frederick sighs. “Why the sudden interest in my dietary habits, Robin?”

Robin exhales softly. It almost sounds like a laugh—fond, warm. Frederick turns toward him. Robin’s eyes are lit, soft, in the firelight. Frederick’s fingers twitch.

“Is Freddy bear better?”

“Robin.”

“Okay, okay, I get it, no nicknames—but I mean. Frederick. We’ve done nothing but eat jerky you hate for the past few weeks.” Robin smiles, rueful almost, and turns his face away. His eyes are shadowed, hidden from Frederick’s searching gaze by the long curl of his hair. Robin wets his lips, a quick flash of tongue, and the faint firelight flickers along Robin’s mouth.

He’ll have to get a haircut soon. If they were friendlier—perhaps Frederick would offer to help.

He frowns.

“Frederick, you practically go green at the sight of me—if we’re to be friends you can’t be about to vomit any time I approach.”

Frederick’s frown deepens.

“I wasn’t aware you considered me a friend.”

Robin frowns back, the ruefulness is still there. He turns and Frederick think he’s never been so aware of the sheen of another man’s eyes before.

“Never mind, Frederick.” There’s a chill that follows the rustling of Robin’s robes. “Goodnight.”

“Wait.”

Robin’s warmth stays at a distance, cautious, and his eyes are shadowed from the tilt of Robin’s chin. He looks coy, almost, enticing Frederick to cross the distance himself, to breach the sudden cool silence. Frederick swallows around the dryness in his throat and leans forward, pushing the dwindling embers of the campfire.

“I don’t particularly care for meat if given the choice,” he says, more to the fire than to the peculiar shadow of Robin’s face. “I am not opposed to well-prepared meat, but. I much prefer fruits and vegetables that are not native to Ylisse. They are luxuries I did not have much as a child.”

Robin sits with a low groan and from the corner of his eye, he can see the way Robin’s face turns towards him, lit a warm honey glow from the fire. Frederick’s mouth feels dry. He’s not sure when he turned to Robin fully.

The quiet feels warm. A smile curls along Robin’s lips.

“I should’ve figured you’d be high maintenance.”

“And I should have known someone with such an unrefined palate would only mock me.”

Robin laughs.

Frederick doesn’t want to think about how it soothes the bitter taste at the back of tongue, loosens the way he had tensed—ready to argue about harsh winters and low yielding harvests, how the taste of salted meat and cabbage began to rankle on a hungry stomach the third week in a row. Robin’s hand feels small on his forearm, delicate in a way he knows Robin isn’t. There aren’t words for the fullness of his heart and the way his breath catches at the delighted pinking of Robin’s cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Frederick, I didn’t mean that to sound so mean.”

“You should at least attempt to be more tactful.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

Robin’s touch lingers and warmth seems to spread from the contact—skittering up Frederick’s arm as if the fire were stoked higher than it is. Robin smiles, one that lights up his eyes and softens the furrow of his brow and rubs his thumb—once, slowly—along the thin cloth of Frederick’s white shirt sleeve. His face feels hot.

His hand twitches and the thought to cover Robin’s hand with his own flits across his mind. But Frederick doesn’t move, afraid of breaking the silence or chilling the warm air. Robin’s thumb stays still but his hand lingers a moment—too long, too short—before he pulls his hand back. Frederick clenches his fingers and Robin peers up at him, still smiling.

“Goodnight, Frederick,” Robin murmurs, voice impossibly warm. “I’ll see about getting something other than bear meat for you.”

He stands and Frederick thinks that maybe he should reach out for Robin as the other man gets up, grab his wrist, and ask him to stay for the rest of his watch. But he knows there are shadows beneath Robin’s warm eyes. He wonders if he should stand, offer a customary bow of respect, and wish Robin a pleasant night’s sleep.

“Goodnight, Robin,” he says softly instead.

The corner of Robin’s mouth twitches and he shifts, as if he’s about to reach out and touch—where Frederick isn’t sure. He thinks of Robin’s palm cupping his cheek and can feel his face heating again.

“Don’t stay up too late, Fredericson.”

He smiles, a small uncertain thing, but the way Robin’s eyes light before he turns—he imagines it wasn’t as menacing as others always tell him it is.

* * *

Frederick is a man of routines.

He rises early, eats early, prepares camp, and takes stock all in the hour before dawn. He inspects his weapons at the same time each day, tends to Whimsy's hooves and rubs her down after every battle and— recently, he has gotten used to being at Robin's side for combat.

It is practical.

To keep the tactician safe and able to move about the battlefield quickly— he has agreed with it since Robin first proposed it back before he had any sort of trust for the man. It is simply, he decides as he guards Lissa—another sensible tactic since she is still getting used to tome-fare— a wise decision. He watches as Robin and Lon'qu rush forward to deal with the archers that have been trying to knock Sumia and Cordelia from their mounts.

They move easily— complementing steel with lightning magic— and something about the seamless synergy makes him uneasy.

He follows Lissa faithfully, shields her from blows as she goes to help Gaius who took a nasty bash from a shield for Chrom— but. He feels wary. Ill, almost. Even as the two Pegasus knights sweep across the fields and tear the rest of the Risen limb from rotting limb, Frederick feels as if he is in the wrong place— has listened to the wrong set of instructions.

The feeling gnaws at him. Even as the fields quiet and he can hear the approach of Robin's familiar footsteps. Lon'qu's near silent steps are not half a step behind.

“Hey, Blue, how about a thank you kiss?”

Gaius' voice is rough yet slurred and Lissa and Chrom sigh in unison. Robin snorts.

Frederick turns.

There's a faint trickle of blood along Robin's forehead— perhaps where an arrow just missed a lethal shot, or an unexpected sword pommel caught him. Frederick's fingers twitch.

“Are the fields clear?”

Robin's eyes shift, almost imperceptibly, to Frederick's face. He watches, still, as Robin's eyes travel from head to toe and— he wonders if it's imagination— Robin's shoulders seem to relax.

“Yes,” Robin says coolly, distant. “Lon'qu took out the last archer— the last Risen here as far as I can tell. Cordelia and Sumia are checking for any last stragglers. Just in case.”

“Good— well fought, Robin.”

He knows no healing magic, but suddenly wishes he knew something. He cannot remember a time he’s ever seen Robin hit in combat. Robin does not shy away from the frontlines and despite the fact that he has worked his way up, carefully, to using steel if enemies get too close—he is not like Frederick or even Chrom.

Delicate isn’t a word that Frederick is in the habit of using for his allies—even Lissa who is too young, too inexperienced is not a delicate girl. But perhaps he has gotten too used to moving to knock arrows out of Robin’s path, of turning to take the crash of a sword.

He frowns.

Robin frowns back.

“Is something wrong, Frederick?”

His eyes are still distant, his voice cool and professional. Frederick’s eyes stray back to the trickle of blood, thinking of where it could be—if he perhaps has a concussion or if it’s a surface wound. He reaches out, his hand only stopping when Robin’s eyes flick to his outstretched fingertips.

He pulls back, clenches his fists, and looks away unable to meet Robin’s blank eyes.

“After milady is done tending to Gaius’ head wound, you should have her check your wounds.”

“I’m okay, Frederick.”

He folds his hands behind his back. “It is your decision, but I advise you seek treatment from one of the healers.”

Robin shifts into his line of sight, his eyes are softer than before, less distant. “I’ll get it sorted out, Frederick, don’t worry.”

Frederick holds Robin’s gaze. He expects to see… something. Perhaps an angry gleam, any trace of frustration at his overbearing insistence to be checked for wounds. Robin’s eyes soften as the moments draw on. Lissa and Gaius’ voices become background noise, distant. Robin doesn’t smile, in those small moments—but he moves closer, reaches out draws his fingers along Frederick’s clenched fist.

“I’m okay, Frederick.”

Robin’s eyes are red-rimmed, shadowed. There’s a heaviness to his actions that Frederick has noticed before but… He’ll have to check Robin’s tent, to be sure it’s mended properly and ensure he’s eating at mealtimes. There are so many things he could say—things he could ask in this moment when the others are distracted with the aftermath of battle.

“Take more care next time, Robin,” he says quietly, his voice rough-edged. “Someone like you is irreplaceable.”

Robin’s eyes go wide.

Frederick’s face warms and he should clarify, and he opens his mouth, about to apologize for his impropriety, to remind Robin of his role as tactician, Chrom’s confidant—

“Robin!” Lissa shrieks. “You’re hurt!”

Frederick steps back, away from the scant contact of Robin’s fingers along his knuckles and flexes his fingers before folding his hands behind his back. “When you’re ready, Chrom,” he says brusquely, “we can check in with the villagers who have remained.”

Robin blinks owlishly at him, as if he wants to ask—to clarify what exactly Frederick had meant. But he follows Lissa without a word of complaint as she shoos Robin to where Gaius is now resting, quiet, despite the way his eyes seem to track Chrom. Frederick spares another glance at Robin as Chrom moves to follow, brushing the dust from his knees.

He looks away as Lissa begins wiping the drying blood from Robin’s face—watches, instead, as Cordelia and Sumia wheel their Pegasus in the air, rejoining the rest of the party as Frederick and Chrom leave.

Lon’qu gives them an acknowledging nod as they leave—not a scratch on him.

He wonders, as he remounts his mare and Chrom coaxes his own horse into agreement with what looks like a lump of sugar, if he and Chrom should wait to report back to the villagers, if they should make sure Robin doesn’t have a concussion.

A bitter taste lingers in Frederick’s mouth the rest of the night.

* * *

“Robin.”

Robin blinks up at him. The bags beneath his eyes are heavy. Frederick frowns.

“Perhaps,” he offers gently, “you should take the time to rest.”

Robin waves a hand at him, his smile wry and tired. “No, I'm. I'm fine, Frederick."

The realities of commanding an army, it seems, have finally caught up to Robin. There has always been an almost manic, burning energy about Robin—countless optimism and light smiles despite the tense set of his jaw, the growing dark circles beneath his eyes, the way his hands shake, sometimes, around his tomes. Despite the time they’ve spent together—the prolonged moments around the campfire at the beginning of Frederick’s watch and the scattering of early mornings when Robin greets him with honey-sweetened porridge at his tent—he’s never taken the time to go to Robin’s tent after his watch. He’s not sure what led him here today after passing off watch to Cordelia. His tent is closer to where the weaponry is kept; Robin’s tent is closer to Chrom’s, to the center of camp. Yet. Here he is, standing at the opening of Robin’s tent.

There’s no indication that Robin has any intention of sleeping tonight. He’s extinguished the candle he uses to track hours, replacing them instead with a veritable sea of candles—augmented by charms to burn brighter for longer—spread out along his desk along with tomes and maps. Frederick frowns.

“May I come in, Robin?”

Robin blinks.

“Uh. I don’t see why not.”

He steps back, allowing room for Frederick to step in. The room is somehow neater than Frederick expected but still far messier than he would ever allow his own dwellings to get. Robin’s sword is propped up close to his cot along with a Thoron tome within reaching distance. There are maps sprawled along the cot and desk and a binder along with Robin’s coat is spread out over the back of his chair. Frederick sighs, crosses his arms behind his back to avoid the urge to begin picking Robin’s things up.

“Have you eaten at all?”

Robin sits back down at his desk. He avoids meeting Frederick’s eye.

“I didn’t see you at the mess tent.”

“There’s information to review,” Robin says quietly, more to his inkwell than Frederick.

He steps closer, uncrosses his arms, reaches—thinks better of it, and steps back again. He remains a professional distance away and sighs. “Robin. You are useless to us if you do not take care of yourself.”

Robin flinches. “I’m fine, Frederick.”

“If you’ll excuse me being contrary, I don’t believe you are.”

Robin whirls on him at that. His eyes are narrowed, and mouth twisted into a grimace. “I don’t know if I want to hear criticism about taking care of myself from _you_.”

“Perhaps, but I do not carry the weight of an army on my shoulders. If not for yourself, do it for those you command. For those who rely on you.” He pauses, swallows around the words, and tentatively meets Robin’s eye when he says, quietly, “For those who care about you.”

“And which of those are you, Frederick?”

“Does it matter?”

Robin makes a noise that sounds halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You are the most infuriating man I have ever met.”

“I have head that before—now. Shall I bring you something to eat? Or do you have bear jerky hidden somewhere in this tent.”

Something flickers across Robin’s face—embarrassment or shame, perhaps—and he gets to his feet. “I. Have some provisions.” Frederick nods, looks to the entrance of the tent, but Robin makes a soft noise. “Stay. Please—unless. No. I’m sorry you’re probably exhausted.”

“If I stay and eat with you, will you actually sleep tonight?”

Robin’s eyes flash and a ghost of a smile twitches at his lips. “Fredericson, you’d have to do more than eat with me to make me tired.”

Frederick’s stomach twists and his face grows hot. He can feel a flush spreading down his neck. “I—”

Robin’s smile drops. “Sorry. I shouldn’t joke like that with you. It was inappropriate.”

A joke. Of course. Frederick clears his throat. “A throwaway bit of banter with… friends. It is okay. I was simply not expecting it.”

“If I’ve made you uncomfortable—”

Frederick smiles wryly. “I assure you, it’s fine.”

Robin eyes him for a moment before nodding. “I think what I have will help serve as an apology then.” He begins going through a small crate. “It’s a little difficult to get anything particularly nice while we’re marching all the time but—the last town we were in.”

There’s a quiet rustling and Robin’s voice trails off for a moment. Frederick shifts. There’s still heat in his cheeks and he finds himself unsure if he should ask if he should sit, stand, or—perhaps—meet Robin at the campfire despite the fact that he’s sure Sumia has joined Cordelia already. Robin straightens after a moment of rustling.

“Oh, Frederick—you can sit. I should have offered. Sorry.”

“You’ve been at your wits end the past few days.”

Robin gives him a fragile laugh at that. “Yes, well. After… everything. There’s a lot to account for.” Frederick nods, awkwardly moves to sit upon the chair at Robin’s desk. “I worry—there’s. So little time before Emmeryn…”

His voice trails off, small and broken in a way that Frederick doesn’t think he’s ever heard. He can see Robin’s hands clench around the cloth bundle in his hands.

“I can help you look over your plans after the march tomorrow—or in the morning if you need.”

Robin trembles.

“For now, you should eat.”

Robin moves over to the desk silently, rolls up the maps, letters, and extinguishes some of the magic candles between his index finger and thumb despite Frederick’s noise of protest. He sets the bundle upon the desk and moves to light a time keeping candle.

“I was going to surprise you with this, actually,” Robin says quietly.

He begins to unwrap the cloth—hard cheese, a small loaf of rye bread, dried fruits, and what appears to be candied nuts. Robin gives a wry grin when Frederick’s eyes widen.

“I wanted to reward you for how close you’ve gotten to keeping down bear meat—but. Well. _Fancy_ food is hard to keep when you move around as much as we do.”

Frederick blinks.

“Well? Anything to say?”

“You were going to. Surprise me with a meal?”

“I don’t think this qualifies as a meal really—but. Considering that I’ve been banned from cooking in the mess tent after that carrot soup mess—”

“Robin. How much did this cost you?”

He waves a hand. “I didn’t take it from the army’s coffers if that’s what you’re implying. I had a little extra from my book buying—”

The warmth in his chest is hard to explain.

“I’m guessing from the way you’re grinning—I did well all considering.”

Frederick imagines now would be a time to take Robin’s hand in his, to murmur that he’s seen Robin’s face in his dreams more often than not. That he hates the way Lon’qu seems to linger around him sometimes, how some days when he sees the two sparring that he cannot imagine that kind of easy synergy in battle. That he even feels pangs when Chrom and Robin go on patrol together—that the easy intimacy between himself and Robin that has taken weeks to nurture seems to come so easily to the prince and that it infuriates him in equal measures that it bothers him. Instead, he reaches carefully for a section of dried, burgundy fruit and smiles when Robin goes for a slice of rye bread and cuts a section of hard cheese.

“Next time,” Robin says around a mouthful of cheese, “I’ll find fresh vegetables for you—the imported kind.”

Next time, Frederick thinks as sweetness bursts on his tongue. He likes the sound of that.

* * *

Frederick has never liked the heat—especially the scorching type in deserts. He thinks after Emmeryn all of them will feel some sort of sick at the heat. He can tell, already, from the tense unmoving set of Chrom’s shoulders that there is something deep, to the bone that has changed in the prince. Lissa. He worries especially for her—the younger sister he never truly had.

Everyone buckles under the cruel sun, the reality of Emmeryn’s death, seems to mix their heat sickness with their grief. It makes battle difficult—makes marching even harder under the sun. Chrom and Lissa, in their respective ways, wear their heart on their sleeve. Caring for them is familiar, a routine that Frederick can ease back into as he pockets his own grief. He is caretaker and protector both—a shield from the physical if not the emotional.

Robin, in a similar way, throws himself without abandon into planning.

He marches with purpose, plans with a cold intent—the distance between him and everyone suddenly becoming fathoms. The tactician and Robin, the man willing to spend his evenings teasing Frederick through eating bear meat, seem to diverge. He does the bare minimum to survive—he eats at the mess hall with distant eyes and leaves, immediately—and is always up before dawn when Frederick is about to begin his morning patrol.

He worries—but Robin is not his charge and is strong enough on his own.

Frederick has to trust in that.

If he leaves small cloth bundles of rye bread and hard cheese in Robin’s tent after camp has been set. Well.

It is only a sensible decision to make sure that their tactician is fed properly.

* * *

He finds Lon’qu near Robin’s tent one night—not looking to approach, only watching. Frederick amidst his war-cocooned heart feels heat, wrathful and petty, spreading from the center of his chest. He clenches his fists, watches a moment longer, before Lon’qu turns and starts towards the training area.

Frederick has a moment—a thought, where he thinks perhaps, he should ask if Robin needs a personal guard since the shift in tent arrangements. But. His tent is near to Lissa and Chrom’s now—a decision that Robin had personally consulted with Frederick on.

So, he instead takes one last look at Robin’s illuminated tent, gold and warm in the night, and turns to start his evening patrol.

* * *

“You’ll stay with Chrom in this fight. Keep him safe. Donnel will be with Lissa—”

The map Robin has laid out of the battlefield is a perfect copy of the one he received earlier—with details added in margins and potential movements sketched in with graphite. Ink dots splatter the bottom left corner and it looks as if Robin has spilled tea near the center. Frederick watches the meeting quietly, mindful of the tremor in Robin’s hands how the bags beneath his eyes have never been deeper.

His voice, however, never wavers.

It makes Frederick feel a little strange, lingering, after the meeting has been dismissed. Chrom is the last to leave. He exchanges low, whispered words with Robin and. Perhaps, Frederick thinks, he should leave. Abandon this idea that has been forming at the back of his mind ever since that quiet evening over too-sweet fruit and soft rye bread.

The moment passes, however, because Chrom smiles—faint and ghost-like in the faint candlelight—, says something lilting but indistinguishable, and leaves with a passing grin to Frederick. Robin’s brow furrows and his frown deepens not in a serious way, but as if he’s heard a joke that he didn’t quite like.

“Is there a problem, Robin?”

Robin starts.

“I apologize—I.” There is no professional reason to stay here. To wait for everyone else to leave and even wait after Chrom’s friendly goodbye. By all rights he should have left with the prince and escorted him to his tent as a knight should do. Frederick clears his throat, his voice comes out softer, more fond than professional, “I wanted to see how you were faring.”

Robin trembles, turns his face away reminding Frederick of a campfire conversation not that many weeks ago.

“Have you eaten today? I’ve spent some of my savings on extra rations.”

Frederick thinks if he were any other man, he would admit to the fondness in his chest—the worry that has overwhelmed his common sense. He has Chrom and Lissa to attend to, but he cannot ignore the hunch of Robin’s shoulders, the tired and haunted look in his eyes that carry to his ghostly smiles.

But, even if he is being selfish now, lingering where he isn’t wanted, it is not the time to burden Robin with one more thing.

“I’m okay,” Robin says softly, without conviction. He begins to roll up the map in front of him, his frown deepens, and he toys with the ink-stained edge of it. “Is there anything else you need, Frederick?”

“Do you happen to have anymore of that bear meat?”

There’s a ring in his pocket—he’s been carrying it for nearly a week now, wondering when it’s possible to know the right time. Robin stays confused—unsure of the line of questioning.

It’s an unimportant thing in the scheme of things—but, perhaps, that also makes it more important. But Robin is tired, weary from holding the weight of so many things. This is just one more thing to add to his shoulders. And that is not Frederick’s job. He is there to help—lift where Robin needs it and he can do that now. A ring that he is not sure will be welcome is not needed to ease some of the weight Robin has hefted alone all this time.

“It is not important; I was going to attempt a joke—” Robin raises an eyebrow, almost looks amused. Frederick’s face feels warm “—however, it seems in poor taste now. Have you eaten?”

“No.” And just as quickly as Robin’s attention was on him, his attention returns to carefully rerolling the war map. The steeliness returns to Robin’s face, the hard line of his mouth. “There’s been no time.”

“Considering we have a battle to fight tomorrow—perhaps you should have something in your stomach and a few hours of rest.”

Robin smiles wryly. Ties a line of twine around the map. “Are you asking me to bed, Fredericson?”

He feels a flush spread from the tops of his cheekbones to his sternum. Frederick clears his throat and tugs at his collar, he can already see the apology forming along the uneasy furrow of Robin’s brows.

Before Robin can say anything, in a voice thankfully more even than he feels, he asks, “Is that the only way you’ll sleep?”

There’s an echo in this conversation. Robin looks at him, eyes going wide and confused—a break in the cold tactician’s gaze—before narrowing. He makes a quiet, unhappy noise.

“For so many reasons, Frederick, you shouldn’t sleep in my tent.”

He ignores the implications. The sickening clench of his stomach when he realizes that it’s guilt that edges into Robin’s unhappiness. He can’t imagine what about. So, he ignores it.

“You could come to mine, then, that was I can remain close to the prince and princess—” sometimes, practicality is the only way to beat sense into a particularly stubborn fool intent on martyring himself “—Bring your cot. Sometimes company makes rest come easier.

Robin eyes him, assessing.

“If not for me,” and that is more of an admission than Frederick is comfortable with, “then do it for the prince. Milord needs you in your best condition.”

Frederick thinks he sees a flicker of something in Robin’s eyes before he looks away—disappointment? Robin’s lips twist into an unhappy grimace. “Would you think less of me if I took you up on your offer?”

“No. I suggested it because I know by now that your pride does not allow you to ask for help.”

Robin laughs, wry, tired, and perhaps a touch bitter.

And, after an aching silence that lasts no more than two heartbeats, Robin murmurs, “I think I might take you up on your offer then, Frederick. Perhaps you’re right and company is what I truly need.”

Frederick thinks he smiles.

“Do you need help gathering your things?”

“No,” Robin says slowly. Frederick can hear the pause, practically hear the shift in thought. “But—actually. Yes. I can gather all my things but the company would be nice.”

“Very well,” Frederick murmurs. Despite everything—the coming march and battle, the ghosts that haunt not only Chrom and Lissa, but Robin as well—there is warmth in his chest that rises to his voice. Robin peers at him, curious, but Frederick offers no explanation.

He does not pretend to need guidance to where Robin’s tent is situated, and Robin does not seem to hold illusions of needing to guide him. He thinks, for propriety, he should follow a little further away; but Robin glances over his shoulder, once, and Frederick thinks it better that he is nearer instead of further in case Robin looks for him again.

They pause, almost awkward, at the entrance of Robin’s tent and exchange glances.

“I can wait while you change,” Frederick offers after a moment of eye contact that seems to last too long. “Is there anything you need carried?”

“No,” Robin replies with a frown.

Frederick, from the lateness of the hour, perhaps, wonders if one day he will be allowed to help Robin undress—to let his fingers linger on bare skin or run his hands through his unruly hair. Perhaps, one day Robin will help him take his armor off, ease the weary stiffness of his shoulders. He swallows and, rather than trust his voice, nods.

Robin, for what feels like the first time this moon, looks amused.

“I won’t be long.”

Of course, it feels like longer. He feels ostentatious standing in front of Robin’s tent, looking pointedly away from the entrance. A bit foolish, perhaps. Especially for the time. But he supposes, everyone has always said that matters of the heart are nothing if irrational.

Robin parts the opening of the tent just as Sumia makes awkward eye contact.

“You can come in now if you want,” Robin says lowly. “Gods know the rumors we’ll start.”

“Gossip, I have learned, is a natural part of camp life. Would you like to hear what I have heard recently about Gaius?”

“I would prefer not to, actually.”

“I would also prefer not to say, actually. I find gossip unsavory.”

Robin’s lips curve into a small smile. “And yet—sometimes, Frederick, I swear.”

“You swear what, exactly?”

The smile stays and soothes the sudden feeling as if he’s missing something important. “It’s not that important, Frederick. It’s nothing bad. But. Here let me just grab my bedroll and we can go back to your tent—do you have watch tonight?”

“No—I exchanged my usual watch in favor of waking earlier. I will be on watch from pre-dawn to when the rest of the camp wakes.”

Robin squints. “You planned for this.”

“I’m unsure what you are referring to.”

“I’m onto you, Freddy bear.”

He imagines if Robin were less tired that he would be laughing, smiling wide enough to make his eyes flash. Frederick flushes and looks away.

“Do you have everything you need? Your bedroll—a change of clothes?”

“Yes, I have everything I need for our sleepover.”

Frederick hold his tongue to avoid stammering and nods. Before Robin pinches out the candle he lit, Frederick catches the warmth in Robin’s tired eyes—it’s worth the surge of embarrassment he feels at being caught sneaking a look.

They walk, shoulder-to-shoulder, to Frederick’s tent and—without conscious thought—he unfolds his arms from behind his back and presses a light touch to the curve of Robin’s spine. He almost freezes when he realizes where his hand is, but he watches in amazement as the tension seems to drain from Robin. His shoulders loosen and he leans his weight closer to Frederick.

He feels a pang of guilt.

Chrom and Lissa are important—they are perhaps the last bit of family he has in the world—but. Robin too, without him ever realizing, has become just as important. There are so many should have’s in his mind at this moment, with Robin’s weight pressed to his shoulder and his skin warm beneath his palm; but he cannot focus on those. He can only focus on now, as he guides Robin a little self-consciously into the opening of his tent and insists that he help Robin set up his cot.

He has Robin sit, guides him gently with touches that he dares not allow to linger—not now, not when he knows they both have too much to worry about besides themselves. But, before Robin lays down, he lights a candle and gathers his spare rations—the same hard cheese Robin bought him and then ate almost all of and a large, gold-spotted red apple.

He slices the apple carefully with a pocketknife and takes care to inspect the pieces before he holds them out to Robin.

“You need to eat something,” he says softly, for Robin’s ears only, “please.”

Robin takes the apple from him, fingers lingering in a way Frederick wasn’t brave enough to do, and in the faint candlelight his teeth glint when he bites into a slice. His eyes flutter closed, and he hums, a tired yet content sound. Robin’s mouth looks soft in this light—inviting. Frederick leans back, hands folded and held between his knees.

Recently, more and more, he’s entertained thoughts before of how Robin could fit into the spaces of his life. He’d considered how, after the war, it wouldn’t be too far off to invite Robin to live at the castle—close to Chrom, to the kingdom he’s been fighting for these past months—and what it would be like to return to his quarters knowing another would be there waiting, or would come to him late at night like a dream. Imagining it—daring to allow his thoughts to linger on the curve of Robin’s mouth or what his fingers would feel like in his, on his skin—is different than having Robin here.

Their cots are far enough to invite modesty, but close enough that their knees bump.

Robin eats quietly, seems to be there as a fever-dream presence in the weak candlelight, but the sound of his breath and the way he sighs when he drinks from an offered waterskin… There is imagining and then there is _this_. Having Robin here, on the eve of battle, and seeking a night’s sleep leaves a heavy weight in Frederick’s chest.

He knows, now, he has neglected Robin for far too long.

“Is there anything else you need,” Frederick murmurs some time after Robin’s eaten the last of the apple. “If you need something more substantial—”

“I’m okay, Frederick,” Robin’s voice is low, heavy with the promise of sleep. He lays down, facing Frederick’s cot, and reaches out. He curls his palm over Frederick’s knee and smiles. Frederick’s heart leaps into his throat. “Just. Stay here—sleep. That’s all I need.”

Frederick covers Robin’s hand with his own.

The candle winks out.

In the dark, Frederick trembles. He thinks Robin does too.

“Of course— _anything_.”

**Author's Note:**

> so. i first played fea right as 3h was coming out and latched onto frederick, married him within 5 or 6 hours, and have been absolutely besotted with him since.
> 
> recently decided to go back to fea bc i've got post-graduation depression and was like i'll marry someone else! ended up marrying him in 4 hours and got absolutely smacked with inspo for a fic. Now Here I Am. with a multichapter. the things i do for my favs.
> 
> i frequent [twitter](https://twitter.com/eirsson) but it's v much not a fandom dedicated sort of thing


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